


And As We End

by OhMyGlobWhatthefrickamievendoing



Series: they say your childhood is the best time of your life [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blood and Gore, Bruce is secretly a softie, But like a seriously violent softie with lots of issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, codependent relationships, no capes AU, these kids need HELP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMyGlobWhatthefrickamievendoing/pseuds/OhMyGlobWhatthefrickamievendoing
Summary: Bruce first sees Jack when he is four and somewhere along the way maybe he falls in love.-A companion piece to 'As We Start' & it would probably make more sense if you read that first





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaaaaassss I finally finished this whole story!!!!  
> I'll be posting the second chapter within the week. I wrote this thinking it'll be lighter than the other one but it ended up just as bad WOW.  
> Enjoy and please I would love feedback be it positive, negative, critisim, correction of any mistakes or just to talk about the weather even =)
> 
> My main tumblr is @ohmyglobwhatthefrickamievendoing  
> My batjokes tumblr dump is @ohmyglobwhatthefrickbatjokes
> 
> Don't feel shy to come say hi =)

Bruce was four when he first saw Jack.

 

Bruce Wayne scanned the small, dull class full of chattering children, already formed into the cliques that would govern the next fourteen years of their lives, with the kind of intensity one would not expect from a four year old. His gaze didn’t linger on any one child for too long, flittering quickly over the excited children, the stained, cracking walls of their class and its darker corners before quickly flickering back to the lone oddity he found in the class (if one was to ignore the rather large cockroach trying desperately to flip itself back on to its front, right by the teacher’s desk). It was a rather sickly looking boy, sitting at the very corner in the back of the class, clutching an ugly purple teddy bear in two skeletal like hands, head lowered so all Bruce could see was the mop of greasy chocolate brown hair and the lower part of the boy’s pointy, sunken face. Bruce wasn’t really sure how long he had been staring at the other boy (he hadn’t really learnt to tell the time yet – in his defence it was much harder than it looked) when the boy, as if alerted to Bruce’s gaze, slowly raised his head up to stare right back at Bruce.

The boy, Bruce thought, had really _really_ pretty eyes.

Harvey poking Bruce in the side ,to show him a cool trick his grandfather had shown him using his lucky coin, had Bruce quickly forgetting about the class oddity and his really _really_ pretty eyes.

(It was much more difficult to forget about the cockroach seeing as it was just _right there_ and rather amazingly large)

 

* * *

 

Ethan, one of Bruce’s best friends since forever, had recently taught them a new game that he had seen his sister play and now, during every break where it was near impossible to go outside thanks to Gotham’s terrific storms, the children would sit in a circle and dare each other to stupid little things. Like when Ethan had dared Ellen to touch Sherman The-Rather-Amazingly-Large-And-Rather-Amazingly-Long-Lived-Cockroach with whom they shared the pre-school building. (Not only had Ellen touched Sherman, she had also gently picked him up from the teacher’s desk ,where he had been over seeing the children’s game like some silent guardian, and then proceeded to bring him up to Ethan, who had shrieked and flailed thus spooking Sherman, who spent the next 26 minutes flying in a frenzy around the class to the shrieks of the children. He was, after all, still a cockroach.)

Not learning from their previous experience with the game they were all once more gathered around in a circle, save four students (Jon who was ignoring them in favour of scribbling something or the other in a small notepad ; Jervis who had decided early on that week that his break time was better spent making little paper hats than playing with the other children ; Eddie who was peaking at them from the top of his book but refused to come play whenever they asked him to ; Jack the lone class oddity, since Sherman had long since integrated himself as part of the class, who was sitting at his usual corner and picking at his nails)

“He’s so _weird_ ,” said Ellen, with the simple honesty of a five year old, causing Bruce to turn away from Jack’s bent head to look at her.

He shrugged. “Maybe he’s just shy,”

Ellen snorted. “ _No._ He’s just weird.”

Ethan nodded enthusiastically along. The two had declared somewhat of a feud on Jack after a failed group work with the boy, where he’d managed to mix all of Ethan’s clay together to form a rather ugly grey blob. _“I was only trying to make it more colourful,”_ the boy had mumbled to his shoes. Neither Ethan nor Ellen had felt very sympathetic.

“It’s B’s turn,” says Waylon, snapping Bruce back to the present.

Ellen turns back to look at him. “What should you do?” she wonders out loud.

“Run out in the rain,” suggests Victor.

“No, he’ll catch a cold,” rebukes Bridgit. “How about you catch a firefly? Granma said if they bite you, you’d hav’ta get mud from the ocean and stars from the sky to be cured!”

Eddie snorts. He’s clearly eavesdropping.

“That’s dumb!” snaps Victor. “Where’d he find a firefly in the rain!”

“Maybe he can touch Sherman...” says Talia, eyes drifting over to Sherman, who twitches at the attention.

“ _NO!_ ” shrieks Harvey, looking rather pale.

“How about we make him more colourful,” says Ethan quietly, still twisted in his seat and staring at Jack’s bent body.

“I guess he _could_ use a bit more pink on him,” says Mary, eyeing Bruce critically. Bruce shifts slightly away from her.

“Not B. Him!” Ethan is pointing at Jack.

They all turn to stare at the other boy. Even Jon has raised his head to glance back at Jack. Eddie had long since abandoned trying to act uninterested in the proceedings. Jervis, though, was still steadily adding to his collection of misshapen paper hats.

“How?” Asked Ellen, looking at Ethan curiously.

Ethan, instead of answering, smiled cheekily and reached for a tub of purple paint.

“Isn’t that a bit mean...” said Harvey softly.

“It’s just a joke,” said Ethan with a shrug. Harvey didn’t look anymore convinced but Ethan ignored him and turned to Bruce.

“Well?” He held out the bottle to him.

“Gimme green,” Bruce replied after a moment’s hesitation, “it’s prettier.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce didn’t feel any regret after emptying the bottle on the other boy, not when the green on his head matched his eyes so prettily.

He had only felt a _slight_ pang of regret when the other boy was given a _talking to_ by their teacher, and Bruce got off with no consequences whatsoever.

The next day though, when Jack hobbled into class, soaking wet and shivering, his jacket from the previous day missing, his face scrubbed red and his hair chopped off unevenly, Bruce felt a horrible, terrible ache that made his chest tight and his stomach curl. He didn’t know _how_ but he _knew_ it was his fault. 

The feeling as if he might throw up vanished quickly though, when Jack looked up at him, as he passed his desk, and _smiled_.

 

* * *

 

“Problems at school?” Martha Wayne asked, as she swept past her son and ruffled his hair, causing a shower of glitter. She had to bite her cheek to hold back a giggle but quickly lost that battle when her son’s face collapsed into a scowl.

“ _No_ , “ he hissed out, “it was _him_.”

Oh Martha knew who _‘him’_ was of course. Bruce had first mentioned shy lil’ Jack, who sat at the back of the class, right after his first day of school. _“He has pretty eyes mum! Really, really pretty! They are green! Like yours! But greener!”_ the boy had said, bouncing up and down on her lap. Since then Jack had become a fixed topic of conversation in their home, something that brought Martha endless joy. _“He’s so quiet!” , “He doesn’t talk to anyone mum!”, “I tried smiling with him but he wouldn’t even look at me!” , “He’s really smart mum! He got ten out of ten in maths!” , “He’s so thin mum I don’t think he eats much...” , “He had group work with Ellen and Ethan, and he mixed all of Ethan’s clay together! It got super ugly! But Jack said he was trying to make it colourful! I thought it was pretty funny...”_ The conversations had soon changed though, when Martha had found Bruce hiding in a bathroom and trying desperately to wash the glitter out of his bag. _“Muuuuuuuuuuum! He spilt monster blood all over my shoes! Twice! In one week! That’s not an accident!” , “Muuuuuuuuuum! My favourite pencil is gone! He stole it! I know he did!” , “Mum! He said bats aren’t scary a-and that they are cute! But they are scary, they’re like rats with wings! He’s just being stupid! Like his stupid face!” , “He threw his sandwich at me during lunch...he only had one...he’s so thin...” , “MUUUM! He took one of the robins! A-a-and now his wing is scratched and muuuuuum!!!!”_

“What did he do this time then?” asked Thomas, as he entered the room, and Martha didn’t dare supress a laugh when Bruce all but collided with his father.

Straining up on his tip toes on Thomas’ feet, Bruce latched on to his father, pressing his chin to his stomach and peering up at him with wide eyes. “He made a glitter bomb,” said Bruce sulkily, “we didn’t even _learn_ how to! But he just made one! _And_ hit me with it!”

Martha couldn’t help it she _cackled_ , a very undignified, very unladylike sound. She was nearly bent in two but she didn’t have to look up to know Thomas was smirking.

“They’re just harmless pranks. I’m sure he’s just having a bit of fun,” Thomas said softly to his son, a soft smile dancing on his lips.

“They’re not harmless,” Bruce said, stomping his little foot and crossing his arms, “it’s _glitter_! It’ll take months to go away!”

“He’s just pulling your pigtails, darling,” says Martha, after she’s finally gotten her laughter under control, kneeling down to be on eye level with her son.

“I don’t have pigtails!” says Bruce indigently, hands flying up to clasp the sides of his head.

Martha snorted.

“I’m going to find Alfred!” Bruce said stomping his foot again, “ _He’ll_ understand!”

Martha watches Bruce stomp off, before standing up and brushing off her knees.

“ _Well_ ,” she hears Thomas say from behind her, “the glitter bomb _did_ take months to wash off.”

“ _Well_ ,” she replies, spinning around to face him with a cheeky grin, “it _did_ work. Rather well too”

Thomas allowed himself a smile, “Yes, it did.” He reached out to hold her left hand, thumb running over the cold band of her ring, “Quite well, indeed.” He took a step closer to her, pressing a kiss on her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose _and dear god, did he love this woman_ , glitter bombs and bugs in his hair, it had all been worth it.

 

* * *

 

“You should tell someone. A teacher.”

Bruce is eight and the new school year had just started a week ago. Now he was sitting out during break and letting Jim pick the beetles out of his hair. Jim had just moved to Gotham during the last month of the previous school term and despite being eleven, he’d always spend his break with the littler kids. Bruce thought he was _the coolest._

“Will you tell too, then?” Bruce asked, eyeing the bruise under Jim’s left eye. The other eleven year olds didn’t really like Jim.

Jim snorted. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Me too.”

 

* * *

 

It’s weird to think that conversation happened less than four months ago. That four months ago Bruce’s biggest worry was having beetles in his hair. _Stupid_. He should have _known_. Life was unfair and unpredictable and he shouldn’t have taken it for granted. Shouldn’t have thought everything would be the same. Should have known that at any given moment _any_ of them could die. That life was not something that was guaranteed. There was a weak buzzing at the back of his head as these thoughts zipped through him, and he knew he should feel angry or sad or scared that at any given moment he could lose everything – _he had lost everything_ \- but all he feels is numb. Like something had been ripped from his chest and now there was nothing that could fill the hole that’s left.

Bruce sits at the back of the class in a numb haze. He knows the other children are staring at him, whispering softly to each other. A month ago most of them had probably come to the funeral but he can’t remember who, or even what they may have said. He can see Eddie in his abandoned seat next to Harvey, the two are whispering to each other softly, turning back every once in awhile to give Bruce concerned looks. Bruce _can see them_ , but they don’t seem _real_. He feels as if he is looking at them through a fog, like the whole world is tinted an orange hue and he is soon going to wake up and this is all going to be some horrible, _horrible_ nightmare. But he doesn’t. He never wakes up. This is real and _his parents are dead._

 

* * *

 

The staring and whispering don’t really stop. The children are quite and cautious around Bruce, the teachers even worse. Bruce is not sure if he hates it or not. He’s not sure if he wants them all to stop, to stop treating him like he might break, to go back to the way things were _before_ or if we wants them to go, to leave him alone because things _have_ changed, and he’s not really sure if they will ever go back to the way they once were.

Harvey and Eddie try to talk to him, softly and quietly. Harvey tells him about his new dog, as he plays with his lucky coin – a nervous tick, and Eddie rambles on and on about anything his mind seems to flit to, while rubbing at the bruises on his arm – that to Bruce seem strangely in the shape of large fingers. They quietly leave when Bruce ignores them, Eddie once more sitting in Bruce’s old seat, and Bruce numbly wonders _when that happened._

Ellen and Ethan try talking to him too. But Ethan’s voice breaks like he may cry and Ellen seems at a loss on what to say.

Jervis quietly hands him one of his many paper hats and looks up at him with big, sad eyes before darting away.

Waylon sits next to him one day during break, when it’s once again too wet to go out, he doesn’t say anything as he takes out a juice box and pushes it towards Bruce, who had been ignoring his own snack.

During days where the weather allowed them to go outside, Jim would sit next to him during break, in a shadowed corner of the playground, munching on an apple as their arms touched. Bruce was grateful for the silent company.

If Bruce had looked, he would have noticed Jack as he stared at Bruce, a confused little frown on his face.

 

* * *

 

Bruce’s hand crushes the drawing as he stares at it. It’s crudely drawn by someone with no real talent but it’s been labelled ; _Mr. Wayne, Mrs. Wayne, Bruce, Dog,_ all standing in front of a house that takes up the whole page, garish smiles painted on their faces, lips the same colour as the blood that _just hadn’t stopped spilling._ And Bruce feels something grow in him, something ugly and twisted and _burning_ , that fills up the hole in his chest and _bursts_ out.

He flings himself at Jack with a _shriek_ , fist connecting with the other boy’s face as they both topple to the ground. Bruce raise his fist and brings it down again and again and _again_ until he feels something crack underneath it. The screams of the other children mix with his own cries as he yells meaningless words to the body beneath him, releasing everything that had bottled up inside of him since _that day_ , tears streaming down his face.

He feels hands scrambling to pull him off, until finally he is dragged off, kicking and screaming, by their teacher Mr. Kirk Langstrom, a pale, quivery man with white hair and red eyes. He holds a struggling Bruce to his chest as he tries to soothe him while also giving orders to the other students.

Bruce once finally calm notices that all the other students had cleared out, his hands _hurt_ and are caked in drying blood, the _drawing_ is still clenched in his hand – crumbled and stained red. The haze that had covered his world is gone. He sees everything, _feels everything_ , sharply. _He feels alive._

The hole in his chest feels a little less hollow.

 

* * *

 

_(They never did have a dog.)_

 

* * *

 

Alfred doesn’t say anything when he comes to pick him up less than an hour later. Nor does he say anything later, as he washes and bandages Bruce’s knuckles. He straightens the crumbled drawing and looks at it with clear distaste but doesn’t remark on it when Bruce snatches it out of his grip and stuffs it into his pocket.

“How about lunch then?” He asks instead.

“Pizza?”

“Pizza.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t feel any regret the next day when Jack hobbles into class, nose broken and face black and blue, specially not when Jack looks at him as he passes his desk and _smiles_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like in the previous fic in this series chapter 2 starts when they are around 16.
> 
> Whoop! So soon! I did say within the week!! =D
> 
> Enjoy!!

_It became an addiction. An obsession. His fists on Jack’s skin. Breaking it and letting small red droplets seep through. Plop. Plop. Plop. As it dripped to the dirty floor of a dirty hallway within a dirty school in a dirty city. Bruises blossoming along Jack’s skin in pretty swirls of colours ; much **much** prettier than anything anyone else ever left on him._

They had a routine. Jack would say something, something cruel and cutting, or he would do something, something small and mischievous that reminded Bruce of a time where the world seemed so much brighter, and then he’d smile that _smile_ , something cold and wicked that made the hair on Bruce’s arms stand on end, and Bruce would attack. Sharp and fast with an almost animalistic growl, and Jack would strike back, clawing and biting and screeching and cackling with manic delight.

The world for Bruce, during these moments became sharper, with an almost painful intensity, but all his focus remained on the wild green eyes under him, that seemed almost alight with pleasure even as Bruce broke his nose. But even as they rolled on the ground, twisting and turning and growling, hands scrabbling at the other’s neck, Bruce always made sure never to land a blow on bruises he hadn’t made.

 

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t _need_ this. **_He doesn’t._**

Even as each punch he throws makes him feel more alive ; even as each punch he receives in return makes his body sing with pleasure ; even as each day that passes with him sneaking back home covered in both his and Jack’s blood makes his chest feel a little less hollow, he tells himself _he doesn’t need it_. _Jack’s the one who starts it. Jack’s the one who needs it. Jack’s the one who’s crazy._

 

* * *

 

Their fights always end with Jack in the principal’s office and Bruce at the school nurse’s, _it’s not right_ and it makes Bruce hate this city almost as much as he loves it.

 

* * *

 

“You need to tell someone,” says Jim one day, eyeing the distinct bite on Bruce’s collar. They are at a café that’s halfway between the school and the police academy.

Bruce shrugs and tugs at his shirt to hide it.

“At least Alfred,” says Jim, looking both concerned and disgusted.

Bruce shrugs again. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“ _I_ don’t understand.” Jim looks desperate now, like he really does want to understand.

“It’s hard to explain. How’s Barbara?”

 

* * *

 

If it’s a Harvey day, he’d try to talk about it. Harsh words but a soft tone. Face screwed up in concern and frustration. If it’s an _Other_ day, he’d watch the chaos unfold, smirking as he turns to the other kids to see if anyone wants to place any bets, as he plays with his – no, _their_ – lucky coin.

Ethan tries too, over and over again, frustrated that he can’t understand, hurt that Bruce won’t try to explain, right until he moves to Metropolis when they are fourteen.

Ellen doesn’t try to be soft and understanding. She yells at him, _repeatedly_ , her words are blunt but Bruce can hear the underlying concern. She thinks he’s loosing his mind, _he knows he’s not_.

Jervis ,more times than not, is off in his own world, mumbling to himself about white rabbits and tea parties. The one time he seems to be lucid enough he looks up at Bruce with big, sad eyes and whispers “ _I want you to be happy._ ”

Eddie _tries_ talking to Bruce. _Tries._ The two end up spending hours after school, holed up in a public library, trying to outsmart the other. It’s _nice_.

Waylon sits next to him one day and silently slides a juice box towards him. “You okay?” he asks, as he peers down at Bruce. Once Bruce hums in affirmation, Waylon nods. “Okay,” he says, and that’s that.

Alfred doesn’t know. He knows well enough how to take care of his own scrapes and scratches, and any notable bruises can be put down to the rare, but almost expected, tussles that come with being a school boy. The school never bothers with calling.

Jon takes one look at him and huffs. “ _You need help._ ”

_He doesn’t._

 

* * *

 

 _Harley_ is small and blonde, with a high voice and baby blue eyes. _She’s not his type._ Not that Bruce spent much time wondering about what Jack’s type even _was_. They didn’t have time for types, _not when they had each other_. But now, _now_ , Jack trots past him without a backwards glance, without a cutting word or even _that_ smile. Instead all his attention is on _Harley_ , who follows him around like an overeager puppy, as he charms her with a smile that is a lot less wicked and a lot more plastic. _It’s sick._

Bruce feels his nails dig into his palms as he stares after them, hard enough for small droplets of red to form. He grits his teeth when he feels a lump form in his throat, his eyes _burn_ and his chest feels a little more empty. _He doesn’t need it._ He tells himself over and over and _over_ again.

_He doesn’t need it._

_He doesn’t need him._

 

* * *

 

 _Selina_ is a year older than him and has pretty green eyes. She wears dark clothes and darker makeup. It makes her look dangerous. The fact that she always seems to be covered in cat fur doesn’t make her seem any less so.

She’s his final shot. His last chance at convincing everyone, _convincing himself_ , that he is normal. That he didn’t need to depend on pain to feel alive. That he didn’t need to depend on a madman to feel alive. In the end she was to be his pawn. _At least that had been the plan._

But Selina, _Selina_ , was _amazing_. She really, _really_ was. The way her green eyes seemed to always contain that mischievous glint, the way her small mouth pulled up in that smirk, the way she pressed a teasing kiss to his cheek before sashaying away, the way she made him smile, the way she made him feel alive, the way she made him feel almost _happy_.

He _is_ happy, and that makes it easier to ignore the emptiness.

 

* * *

 

The first time Jack says something to him, months later, after _Harley_ and after _Selina_ , Bruce will deny the _rush_ he felt. Will deny the grin that _ached_ to break loose. Instead they fall back to their old routine.

Nothing has changed.  _Except something has._

_“Leave him alone. He’s crazy. C’mon.”_

Selina says that. Tone flat and disgusted. The words reverberate through his head. _He’s crazy. He’s crazy. He’s crazy. You’re crazy._

They cut deep. Deeper than he’d dare admit. _It hurts._

Selina means a lot to him. _A lot._ And _one day_ he thinks _he could love her_. So to hear _her_ say _that_ \- something he’s denied time and time again, to hear her simply state it like the fact it is, tone not subjective and laced with concern but the objective, almost bored, drawl of a bystander – it hurts. Enough to give him pause. Enough to allow the anger to fade and for self disgust and pity to wash over him, until he’s able to regain control and carefully construct a calm façade.

He turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

It takes all his control to stop responding to Jack. To his words. To his games. To his smile. But the constant nagging thought that _Selina_ can’t see him like that, that _Selina_ couldn’t think he was crazy, _that Selina was his last shot at being normal_ was enough to keep him fighting against his _need_.

Maybe Selina still was a pawn, his ticket to a normal life, even if he didn’t intend it to be that way anymore, even if he thought with time he could love her.

 

* * *

 

For a small girl Harley packs a mean punch. His nose might be broken. He pokes at it gingerly. Broken. Definitely.

“I don’t need _you_ ,” she hisses, “to tell me how ta live my life. _I’m happy._ ”

“He’s hurting you,” Bruce replies, because he is, the blue and black bruises on her pale skin is evidence enough.

“He _loves_ me,” she says, eyes burning and tone confident. Bruce would hate her if he didn’t pity her.

He knew what was happening. Bruce had left, and with him he had taken Jack’s outlet for all his violent needs. Jack was now simply redirecting that rage. On to Harley, who didn’t deserve it. Not in the least.

“He’ll kill you,” Bruce states. It’s a fact.

“He loves me.”

Bruce almost wished it was true.

 

* * *

 

It’s a year later when Harley asks to meet him after school. He wonders if he’ll be going home with a broken nose.

“I’m leaving,” she says and somehow Bruce is not surprised.

“Where?” he asks, though he thinks he already knows.

“To Metropolis.” Everyone leaves to Metropolis when they want to get away from the horrors of Gotham. “Applied for a transfer lil’ after Red left. Got accepted. I’m gonna be living with her an’ her folks till the school year finishes. My folks will ‘av moved there by then. ‘m planning on going to college there too. I wanna be a psychiatrist.”

He nods. It’s a good plan. “Why are you telling me?”

“Figured I ought ta, ya know. Ya always did try ta get me outta there, even if all I did was spit in yer face. Thought I owed yer this much, _at least_.”

Bruce nods again and sips at his coffee.

 

* * *

 

He walks Harley home that day. They stop at her doorstep and Bruce looks at her. This will probably be the last time he’ll see her. She’s grown up quite a bit.

“ _Well_ ,” she says at length, “guess this is it, huh?”

She pokes at the inside of her cheek with her tongue and rocks back on her heels. “I’ll miss this place,” she says looking around, “dull and gloomy as it is, it’s home ya know?” She tries to mask a sniffle. “Maybe one day I’ll come back! When I’m a big psychiatrist!”

He feels himself soften. “Take care,” he says and he means it.

Harley looks up at him and her eyes seem a bit wet. “You too big guy. You too.” She turns to leave before hesitating. Turning to regard him one more time she says, seriously, her accent dropped, “Take care of Jay. He needs someone. _He needs you._ ”

His breath hitches and he stands frozen in place. Harley takes the opportunity to push herself to her toes and press a soft kiss on his cheek.

She leaves.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that easy.

He wishes he could have explained it to Harley.

Selina is still there and as amazing as ever, and with her is his last chance at normality and he can’t risk that.

Maybe he’s selfish.

 

* * *

 

In their fourteen years of attending the same school Bruce has never seen Jack miss a single day. He would drag himself to school, no matter what the circumstance, with his skin looking red and raw, his face swollen and blue, bones broken. Bruce thought it was less to do with a love for school and more to do with safety.

Even if Jack wasn’t in class, Bruce would always find him - under the bleachers or in closets and sometimes even in the basement – whatever dark corner Jack may have huddled up in, much like a dying cat in Bruce’s opinion, he would always, _always_ , find him. Bruce did not like to spend much thought on his apparent ability to sniff out injured lunatics.

Today however, today no matter how high or how low Bruce had searched the school, forsaking some of his own classes to do so, he could not find Jack. The failure to do so left a bitter taste in Bruce’s mouth. His heart beat too fast and sweat rolled off his body. His vision blurred before sharpening in an almost painful intensity. And he couldn’t push away the buzzing in his head. The constant feeling that he should be out there somewhere, doing _something_ , wouldn’t leave him. It made his chest feel too small, while also making the hole, that had remained empty since _Harley_ and since _Selina_ , grow. His own skin felt itchy and he wanted to tear it off, to scratch at the very muscle beneath it.

“Hey.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

Bruce flinched. That was much too loud. Turning, he saw Harvey, arm draped around Eddie’s shoulders, face screwed up in concern. _Oh how he wished it was an Other day._

“Hey,” Bruce replied.

“You okay? You’ve been kinda out of it for the whole day....”

“ ‘m fine. Just tired.” Bruce said, trying for a smile.

Both Harvey and Eddie shared a look.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “ Really! Come on. Pizza remember?”

“Pizza!” Eddie perked up. “And puzzles! They go together well!”

Harvey groaned. “It’s pizza and movies remember.”

Eddie pouted. “ It’d be better with puzzles.”

“Maybe for you, dork,” Harvey says fondly, squeezing Eddie closer to his side.

Bruce follows quietly behind, smiling as Eddie pinches Harvey. Jack will be back by tomorrow. Bruce will continue to ignore him. Everything will be back to normal.

 

* * *

 

That night he pulls out the drawing, brittle with age and stained red. It isn’t any less crude ten years later but it still makes him feel too many things, too many emotions that he’d rather not examine. He stuffs it back into the bottom of his drawer, where he knows it’ll remain untouched for the next ten years.

 

* * *

 

Jack isn’t back by the next day and Bruce feels the knot in his stomach tighten after he again skips his classes to find him and comes up empty handed. Bruce is almost nauseous when Selina finds him during lunch. She takes one look at his pale, sweaty face and says they need to _talk_. _In private._ She won’t take no for an answer, so he follows her numbly up on to the roof. He’d been up here twice already, looking for Jack.

“I’m falling in love with you,” she says. As blunt as ever.

All he can do is blink at her.

She huffs. “I’m falling in love with you because you are sweet and kind and stubborn and dangerous and _mad_ and you make me smile and feel alive and you make me _happy_ and I think we should stop seeing each other.”

Bruce stops. He stops breathing and he stops feeling. All he can do is stare at her. At beautiful, amazing _Selina_ with her pretty green eyes. Finally he croaks out, “ _What?_ ”

She huffs again but her eyes are wet. “I’m not repeating _all_ that again, once was bad enough. The _point_ is we should break up.”

Bruce feels the lump form in his throat and he has to blink his eyes to keep the tears from falling. “ _Why?_ ” He says, and it’s so soft he’s scared she didn’t hear it.

She did. “Because _I’m falling in love with you_. And I _can’t_. Because all you will do is hurt me and I love myself too much to let that happen. I can’t love you, knowing your mind will always be off with someone else. _I can’t do that Bruce._ ”

“I-I don’t – _Selina_ – _I love you_.”

“No, you don’t. Maybe you could have but your world’s already taken up by someone else. There’s no room in it for me. Not like this, at least.” She sounds sad, she looks sad, but she smiles – that small quirk of her lips that Bruce thought maybe he could have loved.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. He can’t think of what to say to her. She doesn’t give him the chance.

“Take care of Jack,” she says, leaning up on her toes to press a soft kiss on his cheek.

She leaves.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t wait for the day to end to leave. He’s out of school before lunch ends and deeply regretting the fact that he never drives to school. He takes the train instead and then runs the rest of the way through the Narrows, ignoring the looks he knows he’s getting. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he knows where Jack lives – _has known for the last eight years_. For all he knows Jack won’t even be there, he may have dropped out, decided to join one of the many _families_ that ran Gotham, he maybe dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting body a feast to Gotham’s vermin – rats and humans alike. But _no_ , Bruce remembers the raw, red skin and the distinct chemical smell it emitted, the bruises that hadn’t been left by him, and something ugly and _possessive_ hisses in his mind. Jack is here. He’s sure of it.

The house is old, grey and crumbling, squeezed in between two more identical houses. The walls should be thin. The neighbours would have heard the shrieking of a child. But this is Gotham and no one would care.

The curtains were drawn, so he went to the door instead. He knocked once. Twice. Thrice. Each time harder than the next, until he was sure the thin door would break under his fist. There was no answer and his heart pounded in his chest, loud enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.

“Napier!?!? Napier!!! Jack!!!!!!! Jay??? Jay!?” Bruce was screaming now, yet no answer came. Even the curtains of the neighbouring houses remained drawn. That wasn’t right. People should have come out. Come out, at least, to watch the hysteric teenager, in clothes too good for this side of town, as he tried to bash in one of their neighbours’ doors. If nothing else, then for the entertainment value. Unless, _unless_ , something had happened and they didn’t want to get caught in the middle.

Growing more frantic with each turn his thoughts took, Bruce pulled away from the door, and fell to his knees with a painful thud. Picking locks was something he had picked up from Selina, and despite Alfred’s disdain for it, Bruce considered it one of his most valuable skills. He had never been more grateful for it than he did at that instant.

After opening the door and taking the first step inside the first thing that hit him was the smell. The all consuming, pungent aroma of rotting flesh. It was so strong and so sudden, that it brought tears to Bruce’s eyes and he couldn’t stop himself from turning to the side and vomiting. He cursed as his stomach emptied itself. _Jack’s dead._ The thought was sudden and unwelcome. He heaved again. That’s when he heard it, _a_ _giggle_. It was soft and it seemed to echo throughout the house, but _ohh_ was it achingly familiar.

_Jack._

“Jack,” he whispered. _He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. Someone’s still dead. Jack’s alive._

He took more steps into the room, pressing his nose into the crook of his elbow. He was in a dark sitting room. Light flowed into it from a small door, that once Bruce peeked into, saw led to a kitchen. A tall, willowy woman lay, bent across the kitchen counter, her hair stringy and chocolate brown. Her head lay smashed open, blood and brain matter spread out across the table. Her dead eyes were wide as was her mouth. Maybe she had been screaming. Scared. Or maybe she had been surprised. _Attacked by something that had, till then, never fought back._ Bruce had to swallow the bile that rose to his mouth.

From the kitchen to the living room there was a trail of dried blood, as if someone had dragged a bleeding body through it. The living room was small with a rickety staircase leading upstairs. It consisted of a stained coffee table, an old television, a ratty couch and a rattier recliner. The floor was covered in broken bottles and blood. On the recliner sat a fat man. His neck was slashed. His stomach had been carved open, entrails hanging out. The whole of his body was bathed red. Like Mrs. Napier, Mr. Napier’s eyes and mouth were wide open. It was a morbid and gruesome sight, but Bruce almost couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He could almost see the scene unfold before his eyes. A tall, willowy boy – like his mother – sitting at the kitchen table. The woman entered? – was she already there? – no she entered. The boy was seated - his chair had fallen over. He was comfortable enough to be seated, so a woman who had abused him for, what must have been, the past eighteen years wasn’t there. She does something to make him angry. For him to get up in a rush. Does she say something to make him attack? No. He hasn’t attacked before. He wouldn’t snap over words. She’s confident enough with her power over him to drag him out of the chair. It’s a mistake. Maybe he realises he’s bigger than her now. He doesn’t need to put up with her anymore. All the pent up violence without his two outlets swirls within him. He kills her. The noise awakens the man from a drunken stupor – that much can be guessed by all the bottles on the floor. The sight of his wife’s body is enough to sober him up, even a little. He attacks the boy in the kitchen. Breaks him. Makes him bleed. But doesn’t kill him. He drags him to the living room instead – by the foot? From the looks of the bloodied hand prints on the floor, it looks like it – it’s a mistake. The boy picks up a bottle and breaks it. He ignores the pain of his body – he’s been living with it long enough, and in some cases even learnt to enjoy it, that it’s easy for him – and kills the man. The force of the stabs push the man on to the recliner. The boy’s alive but hurt. He’d go somewhere safe. Familiar. To a dark corner, like a dying cat.

Bruce’s eyes flicker to the ratty couch. It’s back hidden from his sight. “Jack??” He says, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the obvious concern from bleeding through.

He hears it again. The giggle.

Jack’s alive. Jack murdered his parents. _Jack’s alive._

Bruce takes slow, cautious steps until he is standing in front of Jack’s slumped body. It’s broken and covered in blood and vomit but he can see the chest rise slowly with each laboured breath. Jack’s body is slumped, head lowered so all that Bruce could see was his mop of greasy, chocolate brown hair and the lower part of his pointy, sunken face. Bruce is not sure how long he stands there staring at the other boy.

Bruce knelt down in front of him. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to run away and scream. To wake up and for all this to be some sick dream. He wanted to go to school the next day and see Jack smile that _smile_ at him and then he’d punch it off his stupid face. He wanted Jack to be back at school throwing glitter bombs at him and putting bugs in his hair.

Bruce slowly moved a hand to cradle Jack's bloodied face, gently tilting it up to look into his eyes. They were dull but still so, _so_ , green.

“I must have died cause _darling_ I’m seeing angels~ or demons I suppose...” Jay cackled softly.

Bruce scowled.

And Jack closed those really, _really_ pretty eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I being so productive you ask, it's because I have exams next week and I'm actually procrastinating! =D I may smile on the outside but I'm crying on the inside =D
> 
> Also I was so pumped about Gotham starting up again today I needed to channel all that energy somewhere else =3
> 
> I hate open endings so obviously I had to write one.
> 
> Batman Forever made me ship it! 
> 
> Please comment so that I can know your thoughts =)
> 
> Also I think this is the end of this series....so what do you think?

**Author's Note:**

> The way I saw it when writing, almost each character in this story is from a different form of media. Eg; Jim, Victor and Bridgit from Gotham. Eddie from Batman Forever. Ellen, Ethan & Langstrom from The Batman. Waylon from that one else world comic where Bruce is a psychiatrist. Jonathon from Batman Begins. Jervis from BTAS.
> 
> I dunno what it's like in the rest of the world but over here according to all granmas the only cure for a firefly bite is mud from the sea and stars from the sky.
> 
> I honestly didn't remember this until i started writing the second part of this series but when I was ten someone dumped yellow paint on my head at school. Unfortunately it wasn't my soulmate...
> 
> Thanks to all the retelling of the Batman story over the years I'm pretty desensitized to the Waynes' deaths, but actually writing them and then killing them off two paragraphs later was horrible!
> 
> When I was a kid the world would sometimes become tinted in an orange hue and it would feel like it was a dream even though I knew it wasn't. It was pretty disorienting. I still don't know why that would happen....


End file.
